You make me wanna shout (throw my hands up)
by ThatsNotAName
Summary: Brittany finds out about Quinn and Santana. Cliche, I know. It's not angsty whatsoever. But if I have anything to say about it, it'll be a total smutfest.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: To anyone who reads my other ongoing fic **(or anything else I've written, and Im not gonna hint at ya, but I suggest heading over there to check em' out) **I'm in law school **(yeah, totes not bragging) ** so that shit is hard to maintain. Evidently, it's also hard to find time to get laid anymore, if this piece of eventual smutty glory will be anything to come by **(omg the puns).

**Enjoy it** (not that there's much to enjoy rn anyway).

X

It starts in the same way most influential things have ever begun: with Rachel Berry. Which is not to say she's always conscious of her part in these momentous occasions, but still, Santana notices.

Rachel was the root cause of why they joined Glee. Her inexplicable legs a factor in Quinn's worst Fat Day to date. The topic of the 6-way phone call in which all Gleeks consequentially knew about Santana and Brittany: Rachel (and her big mouth). She was part of the reason Santana hated glee club, she was part of everything she grew to love about it.

She was one of the few things that had made New York a home.

Rachel Berry, and her big mouth, was something Santana really wanted to fucking punch.

"Looks like I'm the only one here who _hasn't_ slept with Santana, huh?" so her vocab really chills out when she's drunk, sure. And okay, maybe she isn't really over what Santana had said to her in the choir room a few days prior, but fucking really?

"You bitch" Santana mutters, noticing Puck's eyebrows raise when Quinn flushes right to the roots of her hair -and if the tightening twitch of her hand is anything to go by, Brittany noticed it too.

It's the four of them gathered in the kitchen, chatting (bullshitting) and smoking (in Rachel's face, deliberately) and laughing (bantering, of course, but affectionately), while most of whoever's left sits out on the back verandah.

"What? Oh- wait, what?" sounding too much like Finn until realisation dawns "Was that supposed to be a secret?" Rachel gasps, over-exaggeratedly, pointing between Quinn and Santana, and _honestly_, for _fuck _sakes.

Quinn snaps a "_Yes_", exactly when Santana has the mind enough to say "Not a _secret_, per say"

By the shrug Puck eventually gives, she knows he's not bothered -and becoming unnervingly mature if his calm silence is anything to go by (though she knows there isn't a chance he won't badger Quinn about it later). So yeah, Santana is kind of praying to God that Brittany isn't bothered either, because it _wasn't_ a secret.

Except-

"If wasn't a secret, sweetheart, then what was it?" Brittany's voice isn't calm, just quiet -as it usually is- and while her words offer Santana the chance of explanation, the narrowing of her eyes definitely do not.

On any other circumstance, Quinn would've mocked her. She guesses it's hard to do so when one is emphatically nodding their head to everything Santana says. She fumbles, talking some crap about it just not coming up yet, and it only being the one occasion, and romantically meaning nothing, and it's okay Britt, it is.

It really isn't.

X

**A/N: Maybs about 3 or 4 chapters? I'll totes get them up and out of the way as quickly as possible tho. Stay tuned ;)**


	2. Chapter 2

You'd think it'd be Santana whose back ends up slammed against a bathroom door. That it'd be glorious caramel skin conflicted with the feel of texture; the smooth grain of polished, painted wood; the warm tingle of drowsy intoxication; the hard _thud thud thud_ the blonde causes to her heartbeat.

You'd think it'd be in Santana that Brittany chooses to invoke those reactions.

It's Quinn.

"Funny seeing you here Quinn" Brittany's breath is warm against Quinn's temple, she isn't smirking, she thinks, but Quinn _can_ feel the slight scrape of teeth against her.

"You dragged me in here, Britt" Quinn tries to maintain her smoky indifference, but this is not a Brittany she's familiar with.

Heard of, of course, whenever Santana had decidedly attempted to make Quinn blush red heat right to the tips of her ears._'When she's standing there, above you, looking fucking sexy as hell and kinda terrifying, talking about her tongue and her fingers and what it's gonna do to me. Q-fab, shit, I just soak right the fuck through' 'Would you just shut the fuck up Santana'_

"Hm, I guess I did" Brittany hums "We should have a little chat, I think"

"You aren't going to kill me, are you Britt?" she can't help it, and even saying it feels like the most foreign thing thats ever left her mouth.

She laughs, not quite a chuckle, most certainly not a chortle, not airy, nor light. _Condescending_. "I'm not Santana, Quinn"

"Right, about Santana, that whole thing with her and I was really a non-event, Britt"

Blunt nails suddenly scrape tightly against the flesh of Quinn's forearm "Are you implying she wasn't good?"

It's an odd question, but _Jesus_ this is Brittany, the girl is full of oddities "Excuse me?"

"Are _you_, Quinn, implying that Santana, my Santana, wasn't _good?_"

"Uh, actually-"

"Yeah, cos I know for sure _that_ isn't true. She's kind of amazing, isn't she?" there's a smile in Brittany's voice as she talks about Santana that sort of warms Quinn's heart.

It's almost sweet the way she says it, but somehow-

"Like really, the way Santana moans when she slides her tongue _all the way in_, it's pretty much one of the best things in the world" actually no, cross that, nothing _sweet_ about it.

"_Brittany_, I _really_ don't think this is a conversation I wanna have" Quinn mumbles, trying to turn her head away from the suffocating warmth of Brittany, the scent of her perfume, the brush of her hair, the soft press of her body and-

_Thud! Thud! Thud!_

"You look delicious tonight Q-bear" Brittany pulls back enough to land startlingly electric eyes on Quinn.

"Thanks Britt?"

A wide grin spreads across a narrow face and the arch of high cheekbones practically glow, she attacks the smaller woman with a hug, and for a moment Quinn's foolish enough to think the Brittany she knows has returned, but again, foolish.

People often talk about things happening in a really quick succession beneath the blanket of alcohol. But it's never really been so for Quinn. Instead, she feels things slowly, like that one (and only) time she thought it'd be a good idea to give Puckerman's skateboard a go; the most elegant anyone has ever fallen from anything, ever.

It's nearly just as slowly that she registers Brittany using the proximity of the hug to glide her palms down the soft expanse of Quinn's thighs. It's that halted moment of time where Quinn does nothing and feels _everything._ Quinn's breath is coming out hilted and shaky, especially as Brittany uses the tip of her nails to teasingly bring up the hem of Quinn's short, billowy dress.

"What are you doing?" Quinn gasps out. There's a sudden pang of heat that makes her insides clench, but she holds back because there's a reason this isn't right, she's sure there is.

But it's so fucking difficult to think right now, to stop, to breathe, to move the fuck back. What was that reason again?

"I have to hand it to her, 'tana sure was lucky" Brittany sighs, eventually pulling back from the idle circles she'd been drawing.

_Santana._ That's it!

"Uh, yeah, Santana, your girlfriend" Quinn stammers, unsure of who she's trying to remind.

"I'm well aware of what she is" Brittany states, rising to full height and for a moment Q is worried that she's finally going to feel the full effect of Brittany's unease over everything. But the blonde dips her head, catching Quinn's eye, smiling a little but no less losing her stature.

At long last, the dancer-make-genius steps right back. The sudden gust of oxygen is dizzying and liberating all at once, Quinn takes heaving lungfuls of air, moving away from the door when it's clear Brittany wants to open it.

Keeping weary eyes on the departing blonde, Quinn is able to catch Brittany's final glance. It's ravenous, and when electric eyes rome over her form, Quinn feels her knees weaken with every secret thought she's ever had. It's like Brittany knows exactly what she's thinking, which wouldn't be too off the mark considering the shudder that ran through her.

It's now that the blonde smirks, pulling the door open wide. Music trails in, having nothing to hold it back. "You really do look delicious tonight Q. It's the only reason I'm forgiving you"

X

Brittany struts out of the bathroom, feeling better than she did before. Not _good_, but more at ease. When she sees her silly girlfriend trying not to be so obvious about hovering at the end of the hall, Brittany has to fight back smiling at her ridiculousness. She has a job to do here, and by God she will not be deterred.

Santana is pretending to be avidly observing a painting when Brittany strolls past -seriously, _adorable- _but she quickly makes to keep up, her caramel hands clasped timidly at her front as her pretty blonde keeps a determined pace. "Britt?"

"We're going home now San" it's a stern voice, and shit, Santana is terrified, _so seriously frightened_ that tonights revelations have just gone and fucked up what she's just barely gotten back, and Christ no, _fuck _no, this isn't good.

"Okay, B" Santana breathes, hardly keeping needless tears at bay.

"Actually 'tana, everything will be _okay_ once I'm finished fucking you unconcious" Brittany tells her, reaching back to untangle clasped hands, keeping a vice grip on Santana's wrist as she tugs her down the stairs, through the corridor and out the front door.

X

From the entrance to the kitchen, Rachel watches Santana being dragged (though not at all unwillingly) out of the house. Brittany catches Rachel's curious stare and sends a dirty wink her way, Santana having absolutely no eyes for anything but her blonde addiction.

Suddenly, Rachel has a glimpse of the not-at-all-distant future, the one where Brittany is obviously moved in and where they'll have nowhere to drag each other off to but small bedrooms.

_Curtained_ bedrooms.

Soon enough, Quinn teeters down the staircase, taking each step more carefully than the last. Much like Santana, Quinn doesn't see her either, hazel eyes locked on the open front door and the two girls ambling away from it.

She's redder than Rachel has ever seen her, and looks more uneasy than Rachel can comprehend. "Are you okay, Quinn?" she asks, too tipsy to find the necessary tenderness such a question requires.

Quinn, it seems, only now realises she's there. "I'm fine" and it's so obvious she's not fine, but not _upset_ either, and Rachel doesn't know what to make of that.

Until Quinn shifts uncomfortably, and while yes, Rachel isn't as educated as most at all things sexual, but she definitely knows _that_ feeling -sticky, frustrated, distracted. And if little more then five minutes upstairs with Santana and Brittany can do that to someone as poised as _Quinn_.

Quinn who is only a train ride away from New York, and Santana (of whom she's already slept with -and thoroughly enjoyed, she's heard) and Brittany (who has a wink filthy enough to make even _Rachel_ question).

Oh boy.


End file.
